Hiding. It was interesting all the ways Isulril could hide, and had hidden herself in the past. She was never delighted in hiding, never particularly enjoyed it. She rather preferred being the center of attention, the gem upon which everyone looked with awe. Those days were over, of course, though she did sometimes strike residents of Bree with awe with her wardrobe.
She sighed at the thought. She had taken to hiding now, and both looked and felt like the unruly, slatternly widow that she pretended to be. Even her perfect nails were breaking with use, chipped and cracked a little from living on the streets. But it was by choice that she lived thus at the moment. It was by design.
Cloaked and hooded, she wandered the streets of Bree. At the beginning, when she was cleaner, prettier looking to the eye, people had sought to bother her, ask her for coin, or demand it of her. She had been lucky enough to escape them, and now they no longer bothered the widow, Mrs. Pembroke.
He had encouraged the woman to hide. She was not stupid, and knew what Hathostaran was capable of. If the man were searching for her, she need merely hide herself and, when he did not find her, he would move on. But Hathostaran was a calculating military man at heart. If he wanted something well enough, he would seek it, and he would claim it.
But perhaps the man was right, perhaps Hathostaran would dissipate like rain until he was gone altogether. She doubted it, but it was a pleasing hope. Until then, she hid along the streets like a wraith, dodging other people in main. Cloaking herself in obscurity.
